How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Being a Conductor of Light
by fleetwood-mouse
Summary: John finally realises what exactly it was that drew him to the woman he's been seeing. Sherlock knew all along. Shameless smut ensues. Written in under 24 hours and given the most ridiculous title I could think of. Hope you enjoy.


DISCLAIMER: I have no affiliation whatsoever with Moffat, Gattis, or Arthur Conan Doyle, to whom all the credit for this universe belongs. Aside from the fun I had writing it, I have not and will not profit from this story in any way.

"Just a Dream, or:

How I Stopped Worrying and Learned to Love Being a Conductor of Light"

John had never dated a writer before – aside from a brief fling with a musician in uni, he had never really been drawn to creative types. He rather liked being with Brooke, though. She was imaginative and energetic, and a bit impulsive, and it was not at all unpleasant to be on the receiving end of her enthusiasm. He enjoyed being the focus of that kind of attention, being associated with such buoyant energy.

He was used to being part of the scenery, and at this point in his life, he wasn't really bothered about fading into the background. But from time to time, it could get a bit tedious, a bit demoralising, to realise he wasn't the main character in his own story. Not that he felt any particular need to be in the spotlight, but objectively, he knew that in any other tale, the hero ought to be him. He was a doctor, wasn't he? He was a soldier. He saved people, he healed. He was brave and he could be funny, and sometimes he had good insights or clever ideas or good instincts at the very least, and just because he didn't always need to make an entrance, to blast onto the scene like some kind of supernova of whirling black wool and silver eyes and biting wit, that didn't make his contributions any less valid.

It was nice not to have to fight to be noticed. It had only been a few dates, but it was nice that Brooke listened when he talked, that she remembered all the people from his stories about the surgery and laughed at his jokes. It was nice to sit all the way through dinner and carry on a conversation – a real, linear conversation – without someone suddenly tearing out of the restaurant like the seat of their trousers had caught fire, or needing John to fight off some vengeful petty thief who'd come crashing through the window. Normal could be good, too. And everyone liked to be wanted.

He saw that she was the kind of person who drifted in and out of the real world as circumstances required, choosing to dwell mostly in her own head. There were personalities in there, characters who she wore like bespoke garments, walking and talking inside their shells to learn their movements, their motivations, their lives. This behaviour wasn't entirely unfamiliar to John, though hers were different, softer and milder than the killers and cannibals, the burglars and white collar criminals that some other people dedicated themselves to dissecting and understanding. It seemed sweeter, more innocent, and though it wasn't likely to earn her a knighthood anytime soon, it was clearly its own discipline, a craft that had to be honed, something he could respect.

It actually made John feel a bit embarrassed about how lightly he took his own blog, how barebones his writing really was – no matter how much Sherlock protested about dramatics and romanticism, John knew it read more like a diary than anything else. But Brooke was happy to give him tips, edit for him and, what was more, she now trusted him to do the same for her.

He hardly saw himself writing fiction anytime soon, but he was a great listener, and he didn't mind being used as a sounding board. It was quite comfortable, actually, in comparison to what he was accustomed to. She nodded deeply at his opinions, she considered his ideas seriously, and she clearly valued his input. Or, well, usually she did.

"So, I'm totally stuck," she summed up, placing two mugs down on the table and plopping down next to him on the sofa. "Completely. Utterly. Just fucked, I mean. I can't find any way around it."

"Ta," said John, taking a sip of his tea, milky and hot. The mugs were nice, unique and handmade, probably bought from her artsy friends. "There's got to be something, though."

"I'm telling you, I've thought of everything." She slumped against the backrest and stared up at the ceiling. "No matter what I do, I can't get them off the boat. Or, well, not without completely pulling something out of my arse. I'm going to have to scrap the last… four chapters, at least. It's shit."

"There was a writer… Raymond Chandler?" John cocked his head questioningly and she shrugged back at him. "He said that any time a story gets stuck… just have someone come through the door with a gun in their hand."

John had thought that was a pretty decent piece of advice, but Brooke didn't look particularly impressed. She did manage a bleak little smile, though, and John took another sip of his tea. He liked the intimacy of being taken into her confidence, and more than that, he liked to fix things. He liked to have the answers. He wanted to help; he wanted to give her this.

"There has to be _something_," he said, watching the steam rise up from her untouched cup. "They're not on the boat because of the camels, right? The boat was the thing with Blair's mother."

"Right," said Brooke. "She's the one who tipped them off."

"Right," repeated John. "Well, then… what if it turned out that she was on the other side? That she was against them all along."

Brooke frowned, dark eyebrows gathering in a V above her small nose. "That _would_ be interesting," she agreed. "Compelling. I'd thought about it, too, actually. But the problem is, that would mess up my ending. I'd have to come up with something completely different. And I _like_ my ending."

"All right." John set his tea down in the saucer. "Mum's not evil, then. We'll think of something."

"Yeah…" Brooke didn't sound convinced. "Or, you know, I'll just start over."

"No, no, no. How about…" John drummed his fingers on the table. "Got it!" She turned to look at him, mouth stretched in a hopeful smile. "What if…" he raised his eyebrows and grinned at her, "…it was all just a dream?"

There was a beat, and then another. Her expression didn't change at all. John felt the smile vanish from his face. She took a breath in through her nose.

"I mean…" She was clearly trying not to offend him. "…Don't you think that's kind of… I don't know, cheap?"

"Well, I dunno…" John fidgeted. "Writers use it quite a bit. Can't be all bad, right?"

"Yeah, but…" She sighed again. "Especially with the mother thing, you know? It would lose all of the emotional impact. And also, it couldn't have been a dream, right? Think about that part with the first mate. If it had been a dream, that never could have happened, not unless…" She suddenly went very still.

"Unless what?" John prompted.

"Unless," she said, dark eyes wide and blinking, "unless he had known about the lifeboats!" Her words had started out slow and faltering, but suddenly they were coming in bursts. She was facing John but her eyes seemed to be seeing miles past him. "That there wouldn't be enough! If he had known to begin with, oh, because the captain…! The captain!"

John could feel a familiar smile tugging its way across his face. The triumphant anticipation of the solution, the dénouement, the grand speech: he loved all this, he loved –

She leapt up from her spot on the couch and began to pace, pale hands fluttering in front of her face. "Oh, that's just perfect. That's absolutely gorgeous; it's brilliant. They'd known all along, the both of them, and when they get there, it'll be waiting like – oh! John!"

She whirled to face him, and he realised he was grinning like an idiot, but he didn't care. "So," he said, raising his eyebrows, "Not so bad, huh? 'Just a dream.'"

Her face fell, breath catching on an inhale. "Um, no, it's… well, I can't quite use it… but it was perfect, John. Just what I needed to hear." She dropped back down next to him on the couch, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. "It's like… it was a little bit off, but it made me think in a way that lead me there… like the light was on but I couldn't see it for myself, and you were, you were like a…"

John swallowed. "A conductor?" His throat was beginning to tighten, and there was an odd sensation in his guts, spreading upwards and out.

She beamed. "Exactly!" She darted forward and planted a brief, enthusiastic kiss on his lips. John returned the kiss, trying to ignore the hole he could feel opening up in the pit of his stomach. "Thanks to you, I can get this whole thing worked out. I don't even think I'll have to delete anything, I can just move the part with the first mate and the captain forward a bit, before the storm, and that should even fix the problem with Blair's uncle – I know exactly how I'm going to get him back on!"

She was grinning with her whole body, fingers twitching in her lap, bouncing slightly on the sofa cushions. "Oh, it's such a relief, John… thank you for listening! You're so fantastic, that was just brilliant, and–"

John smiled tightly, knowing it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't mention it," he said. "I hear I'm a good listener. But you probably want to get this written down, yeah? I ought to call it a night, let you sort yourself out."

He probably shouldn't have been so relieved at how relieved _she_ looked. He'd been planning to try his luck that night and see if he couldn't get a leg over, but now he didn't think he could face the prospect. "Would you mind terribly?" she asked. "I just want to get it all outlined while it' still fresh, and…"

"No, no, not at all," said John, standing up and brushing off the front of his trousers. He took a deep breath but his lungs didn't seem to fill. "Really, it's no problem. It's still early, actually, so maybe I'll even walk home. Nice summer weather and all, someone ought to enjoy it."

"It is," she said, "It really is," and John admired how she almost managed to keep from staring at the corner desk where her laptop sat. "You _should_ enjoy it," she echoed, already half-absent.

She kissed him goodnight at the door, telling him once more that he was brilliant. He broke up with her by text from the cab, having abandoned all pretence of being able to be alone with his thoughts, and headed straight to the pub.

He felt like a bit of a scumbag as he sat down with his pint and a bag of cheesy crisps. Brooke deserved better than all that, but it was obvious that he ought to cut it off as fast as he could, before it got any further. It hadn't been that long, really, only a few dates and a series of phone calls, but she was so engaging and easy to get along with, and it was all just so misplaced – if either of them had had any idea, then surely…

Though John had to admit that maybe he hadn't been entirely blindsided. Those feelings had been familiar, and if he'd stopped to think about them at all, he surely could have figured it out. And it was what everyone else had already been assuming for months now, and not without ample reason – he was fascinated with Sherlock, wasn't he? He followed on the tails of his coat and hung on his every word, he grinned to himself when Sherlock ran off at his brilliant, cutting mouth. He stood in for the skull when Sherlock just needed to hear himself talk and told Sherlock over and over how amazing he was and his whole nervous system lit up like a power grid at any sign that he might be needed, might be wanted.

John groaned and crumpled a napkin inside his empty crisps bag. He didn't really feel like drinking. He was too disposed to dwelling on this, anyway; he'd be better off keeping his wits about him for now. Maudlin wasn't a good look. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Everything all right?" the bartender asked. She was cute – John had noticed before – and she sounded genuinely concerned.

John shook his head. "Yeah," he said. "Fine, it's – I'm fine." He settled his tab and left his beer mostly untouched, fingerprints still sticky on the outside of the glass.

When he got home, his brain was screaming at him to be absolutely silent, to take the steps as slowly as possible, because apparently some part of him was so damnably optimistic as to think he could sneak in without Sherlock Holmes noticing. He had to fight his every instinct in order to walk as he always did. It was imperative to appear normal. His mission was to get through the sitting room and up the stairs to bed, where he could work on figuring out his next steps.

Sherlock was standing by the window, violin in hand, paused between passages. The bow was trembling a few millimetres above the strings, and he was glaring through the window at the street outside like it had done him some wrong, stolen the next notes from under his fingertips.

He didn't respond to John's presence, which was probably for the best. John needed to put a night of sleep between himself and this revelation before he could even think about trusting his poker face. "Goodnight," he told Sherlock's back from the bottom of the stairs.

"Yes," said Sherlock crossly, to the window.

John nodded off quickly enough – in Afghanistan, his body had learned to grab sleep wherever it could, no matter what the circumstances – but it was a shallow escape, full of dreams of tangled limbs and quicksilver eyes and warm, lean muscle. Just before 4 a.m. he awoke sweating and hard, with his own name echoing in his ears, the thrumming note of an upright bass prickling up his spine.

He splashed water on his face and cursed at his reflection in the mirror, but the images wouldn't leave him alone to sleep. Behind his eyelids, it was bright as midday sunlight gleaming on pale skin, those pink lips and the sharp line of teeth, the note of need in that rumbling voice. It wasn't until the first rays of sun came leaking in through the curtains that he gave in, rolling onto his side with a frustrated sigh, hand palming firmly over the flushed head of his cock, already leaking with foolish anticipation. It had jumped in his hand and he felt a hot rush of white, guilty need, but it didn't take long at all. After only a few strokes, he was biting his lip to keep from groaning as he spilled into his hand. Afterwards, he wiped up the mess with a tissue, determined to feel properly bad about it in the morning, and only then did sleep take him.

Guilty certainly was the right feeling, waking up with sticky hands and a crumpled tissue on the bedside table and a rose-coloured half-memory of kneeling between his flatmate's bare thighs. John binned the tissue and hopped into the shower straight away, jumping back in shock as the cold water hit his fevered skin. He forced himself to stand still under it for a full two minutes, and then, for good measure, left the temperature where it was to scrub up and wash his hair.

He didn't exactly have a plan of action worked out, but, as he shivered under the cold spray, that started to seem more and more like a good thing. The more planning that went into this, the more thinking he did, didn't that just add up to more clues for Sherlock to pick up on? That was what he did, after all. Any contrived gesture, any word that seemed rehearsed might as well be a challenge for him to discover the underlying reason. That wouldn't do at all.

His best bet, John decided, was to have no strategy at all. He'd just try his best to act normal, and for the time being, he could blame any awkwardness on feeling badly about his break-up. Excuses like that were good. Sherlock wouldn't take the time to examine such a reason; he'd just write it off as foolish sentiment. If John could keep that act up for a few days, preferably avoiding Sherlock whenever he could manage, maybe he could wait for all of this to blow over, or at least buy himself enough time to get a better handle on the situation.

He turned off the water and towelled off, wrapping his thick flannel bathrobe gratefully around himself. He pulled on a pair of pyjama trousers underneath and made his way downstairs to face the day.

Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen, wearing only his dressing gown. He was examining several different specimens of what appeared to be honeycomb – a pleasant departure from the usual array substances that tended to adorn, stain, or otherwise corrode their kitchen table. And if it wasn't honeycomb, John thought that he'd rather not know. Given everything else he'd already survived, what harm could come of it?

"Morning," he said, rolling up his sleeves to fill the kettle under the tap.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, eyes darting imperceptibly in John's direction and then back to his tweezers and slides.

"Tea?" he asked.

"Hmm," said Sherlock, and John got out two mugs and the sugar bowl. Again, Sherlock's eyes seemed to flicker over him, and John adjusted the belt of his bathrobe, checking that the knot was secure.

He got out the bread for toast and found only the heels remaining. Picky bastard. It would have to do, though.

"If you want toast, you'll have to do the shopping sometimes, too." He binned the twist-tie and the empty bag. "Unless you plan on eating the–"

Behind him, Sherlock's chair scraped across the kitchen floor. John turned to face him, caught off guard. Sherlock's features were a mask of perfect calm – only his eyes seemed to be smiling. It was a face John had seen him wear before, and as he traced his memory back, he slowly realised it was reserved for suspects of whose guilt Sherlock was certain. It was a face that foretold prowling, tight circling, culling the weak from the herd. It was not a face John liked to see turned on him, especially not with only a bare metre of distance between them.

"Finally," breathed Sherlock, flashing a curve of white incisors. He leaned toward John, looming in – not exactly a step forward, but a definite invasion of John's personal space.

"Sorry, what?" John's voice didn't betray his anxiety, at least not to his own ears. It sounded normal, or at least as normal as anything could with Sherlock crossing the kitchen like it was the Serengeti.

"Goose bumps, John," he said, and this time it _was_ a step forward, and a decisive one at that, planting his bare feet like a flag between John's slippers. "Obvious_._"

The smooth edge of the counter was a brace against his back, but not quite the reassuring ally he would have hoped for. It gave him no leverage and no room to manoeuvre.

"Sherlock," he warned, and he didn't quite know what he was going to say next, but he was _good_ at the warning voice, he was good at this part – God knew he'd had enough practice. John knew he could take control of the situation. He swallowed and decided to go with an old classic, a useful catch-all admonishment. "Sherlock, you can't just – "

"_Can_," Sherlock whispered, and his breath ghosted over John's lips and, just for a second, John's let his eyes drift closed. Then he sucked in a shocked breath through his nose, a sharp lungful of the soft smell of Sherlock's skin, as Sherlock pressed him backwards over the counter and closed his lips over John's.

John brought his hands up to Sherlock's shoulders, following his instinct to shield himself, but didn't go so far as to push him away. His palms rested gingerly, awkwardly against Sherlock's chest. He felt like he should protest, at least talk enough to understand what bizarre kind of experiment Sherlock must be running today, but never in his life had someone with such soft lips kissed him so _hard_, with such gratifying, overwhelming need, and the urge to object was only ever for the sake of form anyway. He opened his mouth for Sherlock's tongue, pressing closer into the kiss.

But after a moment, Sherlock did pull back to catch his breath and the fog receded from John's brain. He grabbed at the opportunity. "Sherlock," he said, but his voice came out low and embarrassingly husky, miles away from the commanding tone he'd managed only moments before.

"Tedious, John," Sherlock murmured over John's lips, catching the bottom one between his teeth. "Kiss me."

John did, of course. He did manage to refuse things at times, when he decided it was immoral or arbitrary, or if Sherlock was acting like a stroppy child or if John was simply feeling too much like his dogsbody, but this was not one of those situations. And the very pleased way Sherlock growled when John licked into his mouth was an indicator that he had made the right choice.

John ran his hands down over Sherlock's shoulder blades, felt the curve of muscle along his spine, and pulled him closer, relishing the permission that he had unknowingly received. Sherlock's hands were in his bathrobe, mussing up its tight closure to trace the line of his clavicle. He dropped his head to follow the path of his fingertips with his mouth and John heard himself groan at the heat of his lips on exposed skin, the nip of his teeth.

His hands were in Sherlock's hair and he tugged gently, trying to pull him back up for more kissing, but Sherlock had other plans. His hands dropped to John's waist and grabbed him around his hips, lifting him up to the counter. He ripped John's bathrobe open like the hero in some ridiculous romance novel, and for one uneasy moment, John recognised another out-of-place expression – examining the scene of the crime.

John could see that same lilting smile in Sherlock's eyes until he dipped his head, nearly leaving John with a mouthful of curls as he catalogued this new territory: lines of defined muscle and new paunch, the pink of a nipple, the curled flesh of his scar, his navel. John squirmed as Sherlock's attention drifted lower, willing his fingers not to fist in his curls.

"Trousers?!" Sherlock hissed out the word like it was a curse, and John jolted. He looked down to see Sherlock glaring up at him with a level of indignation he'd never have imagined could be mustered by someone crouched between another man's knees. "I've waited so long for this and you're wearing _trousers_?"

John almost laughed; he'd never been in a situation this absurd, and he'd invaded Afghanistan. "Well, I'm so bloody sorry but I'd hardly expected…"

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Sherlock cut him off, jerking the trousers down to his knees, then dropping them to join his slippers in a debauched pile on the floor. The air in the kitchen was hot but John felt exposed enough to shiver.

"Sherlock," he warned, feeling rather light-headed, "Mrs Hudson could–"

"Bristol," Sherlock said as if that one word explained everything – she didn't even have family there, as far as John knew – and then his lips closed over the head of John's cock and whatever argument John was about to make died in his throat.

He took in a shaky breath through his nose and tried to breathe out through his mouth as he watched Sherlock's pink tongue swirl over the tip, and it was all too familiar, too close to the dreams that had driven him to that hot, guilty midnight wank. John realised his hands were tangled tightly in Sherlock's hair, pulling a little, and he willed himself to loosen his grip. Sherlock reached up with his right hand, the one not currently cupping John's balls, and pressed John's hand clumsily, firmly back toward his scalp.

Interesting. John wound a strand around his fingers and gave an experimental tug, and Sherlock hissed around his erection, and then, without warning, swallowed him down almost to the base. John groaned, overwhelmed at the sudden sensation, but something in his head was telling him he should have known that Sherlock's approach would be so Pavlovian, so scientific, a classic example of stimulus-reward learning. He could take the time to feel bad about it, to dwell on the implications of Sherlock trying to train him, but in the end, it was so much more gratifying to just gather a bigger handful and _pull_.

Sherlock made a reedy, desperate noise that thrummed through John's cock and John moaned his name in answer. Satisfied that the bell had been rung and he had John salivating, Sherlock took his hand from atop John's and brought it to his own lap, palming it over the front of his dressing gown. He wasn't quite able to bite back a moan as he began to touch himself, and John watched with something like wonder as a wet spot spread, as the robe flapped open, as Sherlock's dark cock protruded from between his curled fingers, pre-ejaculate beading at the tip.

It was all just too much: the picture Sherlock made with his eyes dark with want, pink mouth distorted and now trembling around John's cock, his razor-wire tongue put to better use but still so fantastically clever and deft – the muffled little noises he was making, the brief glimpses of his weeping cock as his fist slid down the shaft. John's eyes fluttered closed, but that only made the rush all that much stronger, and even as he bit his tongue he still felt himself shivering around that heavy knot of heat in his belly.

"Sherlock," he said, and this tone held another kind of warning, a kind that Sherlock was much more receptive to. The slick, wet sound of Sherlock's hand sped up, and he gave a needy little whimpering sound that John would never in a million years have believed came from him. Then his left hand twisted and John's balls tightened in response, and that was it. He felt his legs kick out reflexively and he was dimly aware of his head falling against the cupboard door but that could wait because his entire body was trembling on a single thread, and the muscles of Sherlock's throat were twitching around his cock as he swallowed, vocal chords vibrating with the low sounds of his need. These whimpers came closer and closer together, finally cutting off in a hiccoughing, strangled cry as Sherlock pulled back, gasping and cursing, and let his head fall against John's thigh.

John's limbs protested any form of movement, but he reached for Sherlock's cheek, stroked his hair until Sherlock had begun to catch his breath. He wasn't quite sure what to say, and when Sherlock turned his face upward to meet John's eyes, all he could do was grin. Sherlock returned the smile.

"I must say, I'm surprised at you, John Watson," he said, and this voice, this sated, sex-drenched hum, was something that John wanted to hear again and again, as often as he could. "With all your objections about standards of kitchen hygiene, I'd never have expected to find you sitting starkers on the countertop. It's hardly sanitary."

John laughed and hiked his trousers back up around his hips, adjusted his robe. "What can I say? If you get a good enough offer…"

Sherlock smirked and offered John his arm. John ignored it and hopped to the floor on his own. Once his feet were settled in his slippers, he snaked an arm around Sherlock's neck and pulled him down for a good, thorough snog. Sherlock murmured appreciatively into his mouth, kissing him slower this time, and John was damned if he'd ever seen Sherlock savour something he enjoyed rather than simply devouring it.

That put him in mind of something and he broke the kiss. "Goose bumps?" he asked.

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh and pressed his face into John's neck. "Yes, goose bumps, John. Do I really have to explain it?"

"Why don't you try?" John planted a kiss in his hair, dark curls separating with the sweat and humidity.

Sherlock sighed again and his breath tickled the sensitive skin below John's ear. "It's already 28 today, even though it's only half-nine, but when you rolled up your sleeve at the sink, you had goose bumps on your arm. So, cold shower. And you'd broken it off with what's-her-name last night–"

"Brooke," John interrupted. "But how did you–?"

"Your wardrobe last night told me everything I need to know about how likely you perceived the odds of your spending the night, but you came home within a few hours and went straight to bed. If she'd dumped you, you'd have felt lonely and hung around the sitting room looking for companionship and sympathy, but as it was, you were feeling guilty for what you did to her and obviously awkward about facing me, so the only logical conclusion was that you'd finally come to see the truth of your attraction to me and how you've been using her as a proxy for my affections as you worked out a potential sexual identity crisis." Sherlock paused for breath. "Finally."

"Hmm," John said into Sherlock's hair. That was a fairly accurate summary of the situation, though he wasn't sure he wanted to encourage Sherlock by saying so.

"You've not exactly been subtle about it," Sherlock said. "Though I'd thought you'd be quicker to realise it for yourself."

John flicked the side of Sherlock's head. "Well, good thing I finally did," he said.

"Finally," Sherlock echoed, punctuating the word with a kiss behind John's ear.

NOTES: Written for the prompt "just a dream," hence the title. The subtitle is entirely my fault. Eternal gratitude to Mazi for the encouragement, and to the boyfriend for the admonishments and the curry.

Finished at four a.m., cleaned up a bit after breakfast. Don't hesitate to point out any errors. As always, I'd love to hear what you think!


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